Coming to Terms
by Incapacitating-strike
Summary: After the death of his wife, Estre, Prince Naemon has to decide what his opinions of his sister are, and navigate his emotions for her handmaiden and assassin, Brïka Malorn. This will be a collection of short stories involving Naemon and Brïka, and takes place during the early events of Auridon, to the events in Valenwood involving the Orery.
1. Coming to Terms

The drapes of the bed were a deep navy blue. The crushed velvet held flecks of gold stitching, woven through the rich fabric to resemble stars. It hung around the bed, encasing it like a cloak, the whisper of the summer sea breeze through the open window setting it adrift.  
The gulls cried quietly in the distance, and the hush and lull of the waves lapping at the shore elegantly complemented the entire feeling of the evening.  
Brïka laid on top of the bedspread, clad in her linen nightshirt. The breeze drifting over her bare legs was soothing, compared to the hot sun that had beaten down on her in the courtyard that afternoon.

The days had gotten warmer, and with that came an intolerance for heavy bedding or night wear.  
Still, the Summerset isles were always cool enough at night that blankets under one's back did not cause excessive perspiration.

Brïka traced the star stitches with her eyes, sleep had evaded her. It was not unusual at this time. It was not pervaded by stress necessarily, nor encumbering thoughts, it felt to be simply a state of being. That is not to say, however, that she found said state entirely pleasing.  
Her white teacup sat on the end table next to her elbow. The contents had been a soft dandelion tea, in hopes of calming her body enough to nourish the notion of rest, yet it escaped her.

The Queen had kept her busy that day, so at least this was a moment of time to herself. The hot cobblestone had been a nuisance, and she had to dance swiftly and lightly across the top, her arms adorned with tea trays and pastries. Luckily, the nobility had found the act and its performer, given their hungry and excitable dispositions, graceful in entirety. Call it a second nature, almost. Perhaps if she'd made the switch to sandals, but the soles did not feel right. Luckily, calloused feet were a lifelong companion to her.

Below her window, she heard a door creak open slowly, and the shut with a quiet click. Heels of a pair of boots tapped quietly across the cobblestone outside, and the beat of someone going quickly down the stairs to the shore faded.  
The hour was late, it was unlikely one would have a need to go outside at the time.

Brïka swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes making contact with the ornate rug on the ground.  
She moved swiftly to the window, lingering over the edge, her stomach pressed against the windowsill.  
The ocean stench hit her nostrils as she gazed out over the quiet night. She could not quite see the sand from where she stood.  
Though unusual, her curiosity got the better of her. There must've been someone worth her interest, otherwise it would not have bothered her so. Still, it was quite odd.  
Making her way back to the bed, she pulled on some pants, buttoning the front as she opened her door quietly, and began down the stairs to the outside door./p  
The corridor was quiet as she made her way to the exit. Not a door was left open, and even the servants rooms were still.  
She pushed open the door to the patio, and was met by a warm rush of air.  
Down the stairs and to the beach.

The imprints in the sand led to a most unexpected sight. It was worth her time.  
Prince Naemon stood where the water met the sand. In his hand he held a bottle of wine, definitely expensive, and his other rested at his side.  
His eyes were soft as he gazed out over the water.  
Brïka turned invisible, a chill prickling down her skin.

She headed very quietly to him, appearing at his arm.

"Alone so late at night, my lord?"

He turned to her in surprise, the bottle almost slipping from his hand.

"Malorn!" He regained his composure, the look of bewilderment disappearing almost as quickly as it came. He turned back to the water.

"I've… much on my mind tonight." He admitted quietly, uncorking the bottle and taking a long swig.

Of course she knew what he meant. She would be the blindest of fools to not know what he meant. They had only recently returned to Auridon's port after Estre's death. Though the betrayal clearly had his mind swimming, it must've been easier to accept than that she had been a murderer, and used her fanaticism to justify it. No, it was easier to say a demon had a hold on her. Daedric worshiper. Traitor to the Dominion. Almost Queen. His wife.  
Murderer, that's what she'd been.

And in turn so had Brïka.

 _Her hands, stained crimson as she had stepped out of the daedric gate, flecks of blood plastered across her face like makeup. Harrowing, the sight of her, like a specter out of a graveyard. Hand of death, walking like the people bowed before her._

 _Who's blood was that? Drenched in the red of another's body. He could not look away. His sister reached out and touched his arm._

 _"Little brother."_

His heel ground in the sand. Brïka lightly grazed his arm with her nails. He froze, watching her fingers, delicate, expecting them to be bloodstained. The expectation was not met. He shook his head, plucking the memory up and tucking it away.

"Forgive me, Malorn. Had I known I'd be drinking in company, I'd have brought glasses." He scoffed at his own manners, offering her the bottle. Drinking, on the beach, with the Queen's eye. His sister's alleged handmaiden. Wife killer. Stranger things had happened, he hoped?

Knowing better than to refuse, Brïka gently took it from him and took a small sip. Red wine. Sharp. Distinctly sweet and fruitful.  
She passed it back. He took another drink. She noted the bottle was only about half-full. Quite a lot for one man to drink. Naemon's jaw held tension, he seemed to be grinding his teeth.

He side-eyed her, and had she not already been staring intently, she would've missed the tips of his ears flush.

"Had I known, Malorn, had I known." He furrowed his eyebrows, raising the bottle, "For the glory of the Dominion."

The cynicism was hard to miss in his voice. She did not expect him to be entirely pleased with her.  
He took the longest drink yet, and practically thrust the bottle into her arms. His hands trembled. Had he been drinking before he came outside? The contents of the bottle gave a distinctive _yes._

Brïka stooped and set it in the sand, grabbing the cork from where he had dropped it in the sand.

"Tell me, Malorn, why is it always you who comes for me?"

Brïka pursed her lips, corking the bottle firmly, "It's my job, my lord."  
Not entirely false. Moreover, it was her job for the Queen, but Ayrenn was as capable a women as they came. A smile graced her features.

Genuine, confident.

Brïka had always been the first to his side when conflict struck. Too quick for anyone else to match. On more than one occasion, cutting through the slight gap where Estre was at his elbow. Almost knocking her aside. To anyone else, it could've been blamed on the necessity of haste. Perhaps no one else knew any better.

 _A drunk patron at a party, and she'd instantly been between both of them, knocking the man's fists aside and parrying blows._  
 _She had not missed the look of unadulterated spite from the lady, she simply acted like she had, and tended to the Prince when the brute was too tired to continue and the guards dragged him away._

"Perhaps you need to be hiring better staff." She prodded at him. His eyes narrowed, watching her slowly stand up and straighten out her blouse, flicking away grains of sand from her fingers. She knew she held his attention.

Her's alone.

"You seem capable enough, Queen's favorite." He prodded right back. Yes, she was entirely efficient. He knew this.

She closed the distance, suddenly, in a flash of red miasma, as she always did. It swirled around her feet. The air smelled distinctly of iron.

Nightblade. Handmaiden-no, that was a facade. _Assassin._

The image of a viper flashed through his head.

"You've wine on your chin, Naemon." Her thumb flicked the liquid away from directly under his lip. His blood ran hot. There was nothing in her face he could read.

His hand swiftly caught her wrist, "Your hands are always stained red."

She dug her toes into the sand. Her fingers, the tiny drop of liquid on her thumb. She dug them into her palm.

 _Estre. Estre. Estre._ She was dead.

His wife, cold and _dead_.

 _A blood stained hand, covered by a sleeve, serving him daffodil tea in a white-gold cup. The dish was stained._

Amber meeting amber. His light eyes meeting her dark ones. Distinctly Bosmer. Everything about her seemed to writhe and twist around him, yet she was utterly still.

Their eyes did not break contact.

He felt his head swim, the drink was hitting him now. He saw none of that in her.

A viper about to strike.

"Why is it always you, Malorn?"

He searched her eyes, but found them lacking anything he would've expected. Anything he himself was familiar with.  
In all his dealings with nobility-in all his experiences, he'd never seen this.

She was truly noble, she held herself that way, yet, to him, there was an element of facade. Something new.

Love? Definitely not.

Devotion?

Malice? _No_ , they were devoid of that.

This was something entirely new.

 _Something only for him._

Not even Estre ever held an expression for him like that.

"I know what you do." He took her arm, spun her about, and led her into a sort of waltz, his chest almost but not quite touching her back. Brïka responded quickly, her feet moving to help carry them both across the sand.

She was elegant like he'd never known. Poised, her every move oh so carefully chosen.

The twist of her muscles as she moved, the flash of her throat as she breathed, and even how the snakes imprinted on her skin seemed to swirl about as she moved.

"If you did, you'd find we are more alike than you know." Brïka turned her wrist and intertwined her fingers with his. His skin prickled with goose flesh.

They spun, once, twice, and a third time. He let her spin away from him, and then snapped her back into his chest. Here he was, dancing on the beach in a stupor with the women who cut his wife open.

 _No, that had truly been your sister. Your sister drove that blade to Estre, her words killed your beloved._

Perhaps it was the drink, but he found himself quite close to Brïka, and quite content with it.

"I know you before I know anyone else." He whispered, her head tilting so she could look up at him. They had slowed to a sway, her hand now back in his, his other on her waist.

He himself didn't quite understand the words coming out of his mouth.

This Bosmer-this creature was bold, daring, enticing. Even in her fighting, as she moved she was a being of utmost precision. That adaptability, the cunning placement she carried, her every message she wanted conveyed clearly spoken.

He stopped moving with her. That look held him in place. It held him in place and lit a fire under him.

 _That damned look again._

The one that only he owned, the one only she ever gave him.

"Then you know no one."

Her response sent a spike of dread to his core.

Her voice was barely above a hiss.

 _No malice, no love._


	2. Promised Terms

Her words left his brain spinning.

In the pit of his stomach, he felt shame.

Here he stood, nose to nose, hand in hand with his sister's handmaiden, his wife's assassin. Her gaze was steadfast and pointed, her hands still entangled in his. They trembled. Her hands shook with his and the veins in his arms bulged.

Though he towered over her in height, he felt quite small.

Brïka was holding him there, isolated and weighed down by her eyes. He knew she knew this.

His eyebrows knit together, a thousand thoughts racing through his head as quickly as lightning struck. How could he feel this way towards the woman who killed his wife?

He felt nauseous, churning in the wake of her statement.

And fury was there too, it was almost as if he could smell the blood on her now. He could almost see the remnants too.

 _Then you know no one._

 _Did he not know Estre either? Could she really have gone behind his back?_

Looking at her, really looking at her, all of it, the rage and confusion, died and crumbled under her gaze. Perhaps he hadn't really known, that was possible, right?

She held his hand fast against his tremors.

Brïka's face softened. Her eyes searched up and down his face. Her lips parted and she said something-but he didn't hear it at all.

He felt his ears grow warm.

"I- Malorn-" He tried to speak, tried to look for anything to call her down, but the words stuck on his tongue like a ball of knots. Her eyes focused on a point on his face. Those eyes. Always watching him, wherever he went in town, always preying on his back in the gardens. The kind that pulled at the spine when he walked down a dark hallway.

She was a haunting thing.

Her hand moved to brush a piece of hair away from his cheek, and she returned his statement, "Naemon."

His mouth went dry and something in him burned and writhed. Her hand was elegant and soft. He felt a lump form in his throat. He still held her other hand, feeling a ghost linger where she touched his face. All he could smell was the iron of blood, heavy like a perfume and just as rich.

 _Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful._

What was he doing?

His composure broke, and he stepped backwards haphazardly, a chill shooting up his spine as the surf broke against the back of his bare ankle.

He found himself breathing hard, the blood smell clouded his head, and his temples throbbed in pain. Not even the saltwater could rinse away this stench.

Naemon felt he could vomit, but he kept it down, resisting temptation to clap a hand to his mouth.

Brïka held his hand still, staying where she stood. Her skin was cold as ice, and it felt like flames against his knuckles.

The wind picked up.

 _Beautiful._

His stomach rolled.

He held her at arms length, their fingers intertwined and the sea breeze rushing over their arms.

Her nails were primped and clean, like she'd never worn gloves or gone to battle. Her very image was painted in deceit.

The water kept curling around his feet, with it, a lump of panic sewed itself neatly in his chest.

He could not keep himself from barking out remarks at this point. His skin felt too tight-too warm.

"Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?" He begged, wishing he could release her hand. A part of him could not.

Brïka did not seemed inclined to let him.

She locked eyes with him, her eyebrows narrowing, her hair spilling around her shoulders and blending with her tattoos. There was something so off putting but he couldn't pin down the words to describe it.

She spoke again, and he once again could not hear her. Her face held an irritated confusion.

Naemon took another step back deeper into the water. It met the back of his calves.

Only their fingers remained slightly intertwined at this point-still he did not let go.

His heart was doing the equivalent of sprinting in his chest, and he honestly thought he might pass out in the water.

Brïka said nothing more. Nothing that would give him any clue-nothing to figure her out.

He dropped his eyes to the water below, utterly at a loss, "You are so unlike anyone she's had before."

So unlike anyone he'd-

No, that was not what he felt.

 _Right?_

"Naemon, it's unwise to be so near the ocean with Vipers about." Brïka tugged his hand, her palm meeting his once more, and he relented, stepping out of the surf. The wave broke behind him.

Their hands dropped between them, his fingers lingering as she let go. He felt cold. The panic spiraled and blossomed wildly.

He instantly felt like reaching back out.

Reaching for someone who was not his wife.

No, someone who wasn't a _corpse_.

Brïka took another step backwards in the sand, closer to the manor.

He reached, his fingers outstretched, a sweat breaking out on his brow. It was frantic now.

She watched his hand, spotting the tremors as they returned.

Her face twisted in hunger, for a moment-

And then it was gone.

Naemon's face contorted, twisting in fits of anxiety.

Brïka's hand was just out of reach. No matter how he grasped.

He had to find her out. Why was she here? Where did she come from? Why was it always _her_?

 _Do not lose her, Naemon._

"Malorn, tell me who you are." He stumbled towards her in the sand. Her eyes widened, and she kept backing up. Her lips opened, like she wanted to speak. All the words to bring him back, and now she said nothing. He immediately felt toyed with. A fool at his end.

Panic turned to guilt as he gave it a name, shaking in the wake of his own voyeurism.

Voyeurism. That's what this was.

 _Did you not stare back? Did you not watch as she went? Did your eyes not linger too long in corridors? Did you not search when she vanished?_

Naemon's eyes narrowed, he straightened up, attempting to regain his composure. Something blazed deeply in the pit of his stomach, and it controlled him.

He shook still, and he felt his throat constrict and burn. His mouth was unbearably dry, as if he'd not just drank, as if he'd never tasted wine nor water for many years.

Sweat trickled down his brow, despite the cool night air.

His eyes remained fixed on her and her own gaze, amber on black.

"Naemon, come back inside." Brïka whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. There she was, dark against the pale sand, a rippling image that seemed to coil and tense as he watched, a picture opposite of his wife. He could see the blood now, as clearly as that day.

Estre's blood, no doubt taken from her slender neck. He'd seen Brïka fight. That he knew.

She had taken his wife from him.

Betrayal or not, his wife. Estre.

Naemon grit his teeth, stalking towards her, his entire form shaking.

He saw one foot go back, as if she considered turning away, as if she once again considered vanishing.

 _Don't try to escape me, nightblade._

He stopped nose to nose with her, towering over her and enveloping her in his shadow.

He could smell her aroma, alluring but obviously blood.

His eyes were dark.

 _I will not let you go._

He seized her hand as it came away from her ear. He tightened his fist around her wrist, which was so small compared to his hand. His grip increased, but her face showed no reaction.

He would never hit a lady of the court, let alone hurt them, but a murderer? Of royal family? Of his wife?

"Naemon, come away." Her hand moved to caress his face once more. Her nails grazed his cheek.

He caught her other wrist, the fury rising back up, "You! You and your words!"

He wanted to listen, he wanted to fixate upon her once more. He felt his entire body burn white-hot with disgust.

 _Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful._

Naemon bared his teeth, biting back a snarl.

Brïka shut her mouth, her own eyes darkening now. Her jaw was set tightly. She spoke not a word more. Her arms felt rigid in his grip.

He knew she would lash out if he kept this up.

But standing there, face to face, as set as a statue of a couple.

Naemon found he loved it.

He looked at where he held her wrists, and she looked so small against him.

A nightblade's hands, a nightblade's words, in his grasp but not.

"What?! And now you quiet? Now you speak nothing to me!" He shook her arms, bellowing at her. She stared back. Her pupils dilated under his darkness.

He felt as if a shadow suddenly encompassed him.

 _Come away Naemon. Come away from the shore._

He tilted his head in closer, his forehead almost touching hers. His nose briefly brushed hers, both of them angular and hooked quite interestingly.

He could feel her eyelashes brush his cheek, and her irises were barely visible in the darkness.

That look. That look, that _damned_ look.

What else had she ever given him? Nothing beyond looks and protection. She didn't feel real.

 _Come away._

He remembered immediately his shame.

His head hung, pressing against hers in the process.

The bow in his back was deep and he held himself there, so very close to her.

He shut his eyes, trying to press away the anxiety that inwardly gnawed at him, as well as the headache.

He felt Brïka entirely stop, and he knew she had not shut her eyes as well.

"Why do you haunt me so? Was Estre not enough?" He released his hands from her wrists, his stomach doing flips as he saw the bright red marks that would surely become bruised.

 _You let yourself go too far._

The shadow disappated.

He looked down at his own hands, his palms red from holding her so tightly.

He saw her run her fingertips over the marks on her wrist, and cursed himself inwardly for such violence.

He couldn't read her expression. Was it fascination? Hunger?

The Prince found he could not identify it, and gave up altogether. For all his knowledge of people, for all his practice, this escaped him.

He could feel her breath on his lips. The breath shallow, tensed for a flight if needed.

He would not give it to her.

Naemon pulled his face away from hers. The metallic scent had gone, as if it'd never existed. The heaviest of perfumes, gone like a flash.

"Tell me, Malorn." He whispered, reaching back out and more gently taking her wrist. He examined the marks again. He turned her wrist over in his hands, running a quick finger over her veins.

He would apologize as sincerely as he could in the morning, perhaps with a day off, or have something drawn up for her.

 _Your wife was a traitor, who would've overturned the Summerset isles._

He knew this, in his heart. How couldn't he have seen?

 _The fault is not her's._

Naemon buried his teeth in the side of his cheek. He knew it, and it nagged at him like a nurse maid. She wouldn't have killed Estre had it not been necessary.

Estre really had tried to overthrow Ayrenn.

And now, with her executioner in front of him, he was at a loss.

"I will tell you when you ask of me something I can answer." Her voice lingered above a hush. A snake's hiss. Of course she would persist to be aloof. Why would she ever give something so private to him?

Naemon ran his thumb over the marks on her. Brïka was a woman of the court now, and whether he liked it or not, she had followed his sister's request and vanquished a threat to the Crown.

 _Whether you like it or not, she's apart of you now._

 _But you do, don't you?_

"Forgive me, dear assassin." Naemon sighed, squeezing her wrist gently in his hand. How could he have let himself go like that? She was far from delicate but a man of his stature shouldn't have used force.

Brïka really had lovely hands, and wrists, and such grace.

He wished to study them more closely, if he had the time.

In the wake of that urge, his stomach tossed. How could a man's opinions turn so easily?

Brïka's eyes danced between her arm and the crease in his eyebrows. Her expression turned something akin to bitter.

Naemon brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentlemen's kiss to her hand.

His blond hair spilled over his shoulders, blocking out the world around him.

"Forgiven."

He barely heard it. He smiled against her hand.

Naemon took another step forward, and Brïka stepped back in alarm, and then sharply inhaling and jumping forward into his chest. The sound of glass shattering rang out.

Naemon felt compelled to look around for attacker's but alas it was below their feet where the problem lie.

The sand was stained a dark red, a mix of wine and blood.

The glass glittered in the moonlight, extremely sharp like hooked claws.

Naemon steadied her, his previous emotions of the night absolutely to the wind. A wave of panic ensued.

Brïka picked her foot up and held onto his shoulder.

Naemon felt his face grow warm.

"I don't think you'll want the rest." She muttered, picking glass out of her foot like it wasn't a deep cut. Shards of glass were deeply embedded in her bare foot.

Blood oozed out of the cuts and over her fingertips.

She flicked pieces of the green and now red glass aside.

"Brïka, are you quite alright?" He placed a hand on her stomach, to further balance her, but she hardly looked like she needed it.

She said nothing, but wrenched another large shard out of her foot.

Naemon had seen his fair share of blood, but this was quite sickening to watch.

Brïka's eyes were downcast in determined focus on her task, and soon enough, only a few pieces were left. Her foot looked quite mangled.

Brïka pushed back from him, taking one last large piece out.

She put her foot down, red seeping into the ground.

He thought she must be in incredible pain, and it would have to be treated as soon as possible, not to mention the wound would need to be cleaned and-

"Here, a gift." Brïka extended her hand, once again marred by blood.

Naemon blinked a few times, in confusion and then disbelief.

So this sort of thing was a normal occurrence? This wasn't any bosmer custom he'd ever heard of.

 _Of course it's a normal occurrence, she's always barefoot._

He felt like slapping a palm to his forehead.

"A thank you." Brïka kept her hand steady. Naemon stared at the palm of her hand, dumbfounded that clearly she wasn't joking.

In the center of her palm, was a piece of the bottle stained with her blood. The biggest piece, and yet the most elegantly sharp.

He locked eyes with her, his mouth hanging open, searching for anything to say. Her personality, to him, was so incredibly unsatisfactory, and yet, he needed to see more.

Take her blood? Was she insane? What gift was this?

When he didn't take it, she stepped forward and pressed it gently into his palm, taking his other hand and closing it over the top.

"Blood for blood, my Prince."

 _Only yours._

Naemon's stomach did somersaults. He felt the glass in his hand, wet from blood and dangerously pointed around the edges.

Her blood, payment for Estre. His wine bottle, her blood drawn.

"Brïka, I can't take this." He held it out but she simply shook her head and pushed his cupped hands back.

"Malorn." His eyes drifted down to Brïka's foot, then back to the glass it came from. It needed treatment, even though she acted as if she'd only stubbed her toe. Another facade, surely.

She was adamant about this, and he could tell by the crease in between her eyebrows her mind would not be swayed.

Naemon sighed, at a loss for communication.

The blood in the sand continued to seep.

"Come, we'll have your foot bandaged. The Queen's favorite can't be out of commission." He pocketed the glass, holding out his arm as if to ask for a dance.

Brïka bowed her head, accepting his arm and leaning on him for support.

He wished this were a dance instead.

 _Estre was never a good dancer._

The sand she stood on was smeared a dark red, and he knew he had to get her wrapped up quickly.

"I'll have my sister go easy on you tomorrow. I'll tell her it was my fault." Naemon half apologized, and began to lead her back towards the manor. Leaning heavily into his shoulder, Brïka side eyed him, softly, but she spoke not a word.

For how short she was in comparison to him, she was quite heavy, and he found he had to shift his shoulder entirely under her arm and hobble awkwardly to help her up the steps and to the door.

As his hand lifted to pull the door open, it opened inward unexpectedly.

 _Damn cat._

Razumdar blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting to find the Prince and Brïka, her arm strung over his shoulder and one foot picked up, spattering blood onto the marble flooring.

His tongue flicked between his teeth, as if he was trying to decide what to make of the situation.

"Ah, Prince Naemon," Razumdar said finally, and opened the door and bowed slightly to let them both into the manor, "This one did not expect to find _you_ out so late. And with company."

Naemon furrowed his brow, and helped Brïka inside. She looked a little worse for wear, and not willing to put up with Razumdar at the moment. Her eyes were half lidded in annoyance and her mouth drawn down in a grimace.

She even placed her bad foot down to move the two of them forward faster, leaving a large red mark on the white flooring.

There was another thing he shared with her, mutual dislike for the other favorite Eye.

Razumdar spotted the blood, and bristled against the door, "What happened?"

The door shut more loudly than he obviously had intended, as it just seemed to raise tensions.

"My fault." Naemon said curtly, turning away from the khajiit and continuing down the hall. Razumdar followed at his heels, not satisfied with the answer.

Naemon's patience was running incredibly thin.

"Specifically, this one would like to know what happened." His lip curled, clearly the dislike for one another was shared.

Brïka straightened up, her chin held high and her eyes staring though him. She barely held Naemon again, as if her foot wasn't bothering her, "Out for a late evening stroll are we?"

Razumdar looked as if he wanted to say more, but shut his mouth sheepishly as Brïka stared him down.

Even Naemon found himself a little rattled by the sight. He shook the feeling.

Naemon sighed loudly. It was too late to be bickering in a corridor, and too dark for any sensible company to be wandering the halls.

Not that he particularly felt Razumdar was _sensible_ company.

Of all the servants they had to meet, why'd it have to be the most coy and jumpy one?

"My dear, let us tend to your foot, yes?" Naemon placed a hand on Brïka's shoulder. He saw a tinge of red float about her mouth. Clearly if this went on longer, she'd just use her nightblade abilities to leave.

 _Dear._

Razumdar looked highly suspicious.

 _Thinking I'm out for revenge, cat?_

Naemon jolted slightly as Brïka collided her weight with his shoulder once more. Did she really need his help?

Perhaps not, but he knew as well as any gentlemen not to let her go alone while wounded.

Besides, she was not at all awful to have on his arm.

"My foot hurts." Brïka sighed plainly, her tone laced with weariness, mock collapsing against Naemon as he did his best to catch her.

She knew how to put on a show, given the present company, it seemed less than needed.

"This one will inform her Majesty of this in the morning." Razumdar turned down the hall back towards the door once more.

"No need. I will inform her myself." Naemon snapped, scooping up Brïka so she did not have to stand at all. Last thing he needed was that damn cat whispering to his sister that he hurt her precious Eye.

He heard Razumdar scoff viciously behind him, but it was of little importance.

Without another word, he proceeded to head up the manor's stairs and stalk down the dimly lit and quiet hallway until he reached Brïka's room.

"You're quite the actress, Ms. Malorn." He felt his laugh draw up from his chest. His fingertips pressed into her skin.

"I don't know what you mean. I find myself exhausted." Brïka let out a hiss of air from between her teeth.

Only once he was inside did he realize how tightly he was holding her to his chest.

His face flushed.

"I'm sorry, my lady." He moved to set her down on the bed, but she pushed away from his chest and to her feet with ease.

She sat down on the bed and grabbed a linen cloth, and began to hastily wrap her foot. It was meticulous and precise, but quickly done. This was a normal occurrence?

How much blood did she lose? It seemed to be of little consequence.

"I'll explain to Ayrenn if she asks. Do not worry, Prince." She didn't look up from her bandaging. Naemon stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of whether to go or not.

The blood was seeping through the first few layers.

"I'll fetch you more cloth." He started to turn to leave.

"Cloth and carrying? You act as if you're the servant here." Brïka gave a coy smirk, tying off the bandage on the top of her foot and perching on the edge of the bedspread.

Naemon leaned against the doorframe. The feeling in the pit of his stomach bubbled up again.

He would have someone sent to bring her real bandages as soon as he could, and maybe a healer too if she didn't accomplish that somehow on her own too.

"Blood for blood, isn't that what you said?" Naemon's hand moved to his pocket, thumbing the smooth side of the glass.

"Promised." Brïka corrected, getting up and moving to the doorway with him.

"People will talk if you linger around the room of the Queen's favorite." She whispered. She was almost nose to nose with him now, and he could smell her breath, still hinting of wine.

"Promised." He returned, before bowing slightly and stepping out of the doorway, "Sleep well, my lady."

Once a little further down the hallway, he turned and looked at her through the slight crack in the door she left.

"I will know you."


	3. A Walk In The Garden

It was the kind of memory that came back to him often. A tart, thinly veiled memory, riddled with personal bias. That first summer of her employment. How charming she had seemed, how elegant her introduction into his very life was. His sister knew how to pick her servants, and she chose interestingly and in a way that left strange impressions in one's psyche. Yes, that first summer had forever altered his life, and he knew it would continue to until the day they had both died, however far away that may be. The parties, the business trips, the meetings, and the remarkable meals. The memory itself left a sour taste in his mouth, and yet he could not help but think of it in a bittersweet manner. It could only be thought of as bittersweet, in truth.

Oh yes, the company meals, in their truths, were among his fondest memories, they always would be. They had been so exquisitely exciting, though little more than conversation had ever happened. And yet, for her company being such a wonderful addition to his daily life, the memory itself was odd.

Prince Naemon looked up from his lunch, a cherubim blush glazing his complexion, and feverishly hummed, "How beautiful, how divine a creature!"

The surrounding company tittered in agreement, and tucked into their meals. The arising topic of the woman, the Queen's new Eye, was a heated one. On the one hand, she was delightfully charming, and acted as if the high society had been one of her upbringing, and she made the most exquisite conversation partner. On the other hand, the Maormer tattoos could not be fully covered by most garments, especially in the heat of the early summer days and the humidity of the great halls. But, for all the suspicion that it arose, her stories put the disgraceful markings to complete shame. It would have to be worked out of her, practically begged for, but she would relent and speak the horrid tale to life. Tearfully, she could weave a tale of a humble upbringing, and the abuse she suffered at the hands of the pirates.

Yes, she was charmingly false.

"Oh!- Look how they marred me! I can no longer bear the sight of serpents, and yet I'm branded with them forever!"

Halfway through, she always wistfully and tragically wiped away a tear, and with a sorrowful gasp would cry out, "I'm sorry, it's just too much to bear-I simply cannot go on! I must live with this on my own."

The surrounding rabble would give anguished sympathies, and pat her on the shoulder. What a brave young bosmer woman! How stupendously independent! What a soul Queen Ayrenn had truly stumbled upon! What divine luck!

Prince Naemon would listen eagerly, but sit back and laugh to himself once the crowds turned away, for Brïka's face would go quit stoic, and all practice of agony would go from it like a stone from a young boy's sling. Of course, the joy would mask when she turned to another conversation, but a mask it was. For, he had seen her drenched in blood, and that did not stir her tragedies one bit. He, himself knew the trials of the court, and it seemed to him that she had quickly, and almost effortlessly learned to manipulate it as quickly as she had aligned herself with the Queen.

Truly, how beautiful and intriguing a creature she was. And, therefore, she was entirely, dreadfully alluring.

And so it was that later that summer's afternoon, he would find himself walking with her through the rose gardens, her arm gently tucked in his elbow as the two strolled along. She was quite small in stature compared to him, and therefore looked almost younger than she was, and it added to her affect. The sun could kiss their complexion, and to their company be a delightful addition to the lunch that was served earlier. The waves crashed upon the somewhat distant shore, and all was right in that late afternoon.

"Now, Ms. Malorn, I should find in myself a good man to tell you that you've captured the interests of the court's nobility." He said to her, a wry smile upon his features.

"And, I should find within my depths, a good woman to say that it is to you I owe the opportunity! Without your invitation, I shouldn't have presented such a story." Brïka laughed, a warmth spreading over her face.

"A dreadful tale." He shook in mock disgust.

"Oh, completely inane and dreadful!" She sighed and threw one immaculately kept hand over her eyes, "I shan't ever tell it again!"

"Truly, it's too depressing a story for any decent man's lunch." Naemon shook his head in mock disdain, giving a gentle squeeze to her arm.

"Pirates and sad women put you off your meals? I shudder to think of how you manage this state!"

The two laughed warmheartedly, as if they were talking about a recent opera, and continued to walk.

"Speaking, so, of the state, how is your wife, my lord?" Brïka's face had shifted to an expression one gets when the courier is late, and she had pulled the stroll to a stop in front of a bush of nightshades. Naemon had often wondered why they kept them in the garden. They did not match the surrounding Dragon's Tongue or mountain flowers that they had shipped in from Riften. They looked like a ripe bruise on tan skin, and they were so sorely out of place in the direct center of the garden.

Yes, he would take it up with the gardener to have a replacement put in. They were such an eyesore, and were they not toxic? Obviously, he would not eat them, but they really were so out of place. Yes, he would have them removed immediately.

He became vaguely aware that he had still not given her an answer when she shifted to face him more directly, giving his arm a slight tug.

"She won't attend my parties, but is quite well all the same. Perhaps, she is sick of theatrics." Naemon's face kept his wry and cheery disposition, but a look of unease crept in around his eyes as he continued to stare at the nightshades, "Say, why do you ask?"

"I see her less and less, and in all honesty my good prince, I get the feeling the woman does not like me." Brïka clucked. Naemon looked at her in shock, and then a guilt came over him, and he resorted to a fib.

"I've noticed no such thing!"

Brïka stooped and plucked a nightshade with her free hand, twirling the stem between her thumb and index finger.

"You're quite kind in her absence, my lord." She looked at him, warmly, handing the soft purple flower over, "These are my favorite, don't you know? My mother loves bluebells, but I prefer the nightshade's darker complexion."

Naemon took it, studying the toxic thing intensely, understanding now why there were in the garden at all, "Only as kind as she is to me. I'm afraid my explanations of her absence do her no great justice, I only wish she'd accompany me."

Brïka shrugged absently, "You'd do well to not hang your heart on others."

He sighed, and tucked the flower in his vest pocket absentmindedly, and patted her hand affectionately, "Do tell me more of your dreadful stories, Malorn, I have tired of this subject."

He began to walk again, the ill mannered talk of his wife wasn't suited to his style, though he knew Ms. Malorn only worked eagerly to speak her thoughts. After a moment, he spoke out again, "I must say, your mother has wonderful taste in flowers. I think a powder blue would fit the garden much better than nightshades."

"Is it not one's obligation to stand out, Prince Naemon?" Brïka laughed, "I quite like them. I asked the gardener to plant them for me."

"Perhaps you could ask him to move them out of the center?" Prince Naemon sighed emphatically, "Do you have another favorite that is less striking?"

Yes, her style was unique and striking, much more suited to her lifestyle than his. For being his sister's personal viper, she made for entertaining company.

"None. Oh, please leave them be Naemon." She flashed him a strangely endearing smile, her dark eyes mocking his annoyance.

He threw his free hand up and waved it off, "Next thing I know, you'll be replacing the gold drapes in the hallways!"

"Oh yes, and then the silver spoons as well." She chuckled, "I have much planned."

"Do not." He chided. Brïka rolled her eyes.

"I jest. I only work for Queen Ayrenn, I don't run her kingdom, nor would I ever desire to."

Naemon shrugged in response, "I don't suppose you would."

True, it was a monumental task, but he would've put his heart and soul into it, and here he was, fussing to himself over flowers and silver spoons. What were silver spoons in comparison to a golden crown? Was his brow not as noble as his sister's? Was playing warrior not a good enough triumph for Ayrenn?

Estre had taken it worse than he had, in fact, she's practically spat when Ayrenn returned and took up the conversation with Naemon, and refused to leave the room.

"I think you do well," Brïka cut across his thoughts, "That is, in advising her. You've got a social mind, Prince Naemon. Queen Ayrenn loves the fight for the kingdom, not the fight for the favor of the nobility."

Naemon felt a small flicker of pride from the compliment. The same blush that had plagued his tan cheeks at lunch once again made a shy appearance. He smiled at her, "You're quite kind, Ms. Malorn."

"Only to the deserving." She replied, letting her fingertips brush over the flowers and grasses as they continued to walk.

"Am I truly that deserving?" Naemon pondered, finding himself intellectually stimulated in the pride of his own advisory skills. He quickly chastised himself for it.

Yes, that was right. She was a great actress, and he mustn't forget that, no matter how charming her compliments.

"The only deserving one, my lord." Her voice had dropped in tone, her dark eyes wandered the ground, for a moment, "I find it hard to give any worthy compliments these days."

She suddenly looked up at him, stopping in her tracks and bringing her free hand to grasp his elbow. The sudden movement startled Naemon, and he clasped his hand over top of her's.

"Ms. Malorn? Are you quite alright? You look seized by something." He leaned in close to her, and she leaned into him.

Her face had drained of all joviality, the smile that had crept so wonderfully into her eyes that afternoon had vanished as if it had never been there at all.

Naemon found himself captivated, an anxiety steeping pungently in his stomach. The image of her soaked in crimson slipped dramatically through his head.

"Naemon, are you so sure Lady Estre has your best interests at heart?"

Naemon looked at her, pulling back with a start, mouth agape in shock, and then almost anger, "You do her ill to speak like that! Never say that again!"

"I am only asking." Brïka was steadfast in her opinion, "There is much in Cyrodiil that you do not know of. I think your advisory skills are of vital influence to Ayrenn. I repeat, my lord, does Estre have your best interests as heart?"

"Why? Are you so sure she doesn't?" He felt his blood begin to run hot, "I know of the situation in Cyrodiil! Are you so sure, with your Maormer roots, that _you_ have the Queen's best interests at heart? Speak Malorn!"

Brïka turned her head away, releasing his elbow from her grip and beginning to walk off on her own, as if something else had immediately become of great interest to her.

"I will see you at dinner, Ayrenn wants to discuss the state of the war, Prince Naemon." He heard her say, and before his eyes, in the true spirit of any nightblade, she vanished neatly into thin air.

Naemon held his hand out, waiting for her to reappear, waiting for the chance to apologize. The Maormer comment had been too far-she was no snake in the grass, Ayrenn would not have brought her in had she any doubt about her.

The guilt washed over him like the waves on the shore below. Yes, he would make his amends before dinner.

A shiver ran down his spine, and something drew his attention with great intensity up to the window.

There, in the window, stood the Lady Estre. His eyes met her, and she gazed back at him with no warmth.

The drapes dropped from her hands, and like Ms. Malorn before her, she was gone too.

The nightshade, although a weightless thing, felt like lead in his vest pocket.


End file.
